Forsaken
by Bryher
Summary: Rage and mercy seldom go hand in hand.
1. Chapter 1

**Title;** Forsaken  
**Summary;** Rage and mercy seldom go hand in hand.  
**Author's Notes;** New story. Hopefully. I've been playing with this plot for a while, but I'm not sure I've got is sufficiently mapped out up in the old cranium yet. I'm going away to Italy for two weeks soon, so there won't be any updates for that time. However, if you want to use that time to read and review, it would be much appreciated.

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The light from the villa doors shone out onto the cobbled street like a beacon, drenching the worn cobblestones with golden torchlight. The blood that ran in rivulets down the thoroughfare from the face-down corpse was less welcoming, and the sound of grieving women rang out through the hot, thick summer night air.  
Leaning against the neighbouring villa wall, Isola carefully wiped the small, bloodied knife in her hands and tucked it away into the folds of her jerkin. She watched as the nobleman's widow howled and threw herself over the body of her dead husband, face screwed up in a pantomime of grief and despair. Isola knew the nobles' methods; the grief that the woman displayed now would later be replaced with a pale, drawn face that would be displayed by the open curtains of the litter carried through the forum, and which would then commented upon by the rich nobility. Invitations to dinners and parties would flow in as the nobility of Rome comforted the "grieving" widow, whose political security in light of her husband's death would be increased. It was all for show. Lip curling in disgust, Isola turned away, pulling up her hood to shield her face from the guards running up the street. Rome revolved around the darkness and corruption made permissible by unscrupulous nobles.  
Turning onto the Aventine Hill, Isola pulled the hood back down and revelled in the cool air that washed over her face. For a long moment, she stood still, eyes closed, listening to the distant wailing and searching for the guilt that she knew should have been roiling in her stomach. Only a calm sense of relief dwelt on her mind; the noble was dead; she could collect the rest of her money.

Taking the path past the loud and noisy brothels, Isola wound her way through the familiar streets and alleyways, moving silently to avoid attracting attention. She was in a philosophical mood; perhaps she felt no guilt because the noble was notorious for sodomising young boys and torturing young girls; perhaps there was no guilt because he had ordered the murder of a kindly old Senator with the bravery to contest slavery laws. Maybe it was because she didn't know his name; only that he was a Senator with uncharitable designs for his fellow men. Isola looked up sharply as a shape moved overhead. Stray cat. She rarely asked the name of those she was supposed to kill; putting names to faces was asking for trouble. It was easier to deny knowledge if you were caught. Truth was evasive in Rome, so lying through ignorance was acceptable to Isola. Standing aside to let a legionnaire carry his drunken companion past, Isola shook her head.

There was no guilt because it was routine. After a while, it became too easy; the meat you were slicing through became the object that stood between you and the next herb fix from the doctor or place to sleep. Isola continued through the labyrinthine streets until the dark, grimy door of Erastes appeared. Giving a nod to Tullius, whose hulking frame guarded the doorway, Isola slipped past the second guard with a murmur of thanks, keeping her hand on the small knife in her jerkin. Thugs in this area were loyal to the man who paid them; it didn't mean they had to be loyal to the other people under the same employ.  
Erastes had been drinking. Nothing particularly rare about that; he was paid by nobles to kill off those who opposed or disrespected them; Erastes in turn paid mercenaries to carry out the dirty work. The going rate for a killing was ten aurei; or two hundred and fifty denari. Erastes got half, and the mercenary got half. Erastes liked fine wine and women; he was surrounded by lesser, nefarious businessmen and whores; playing the sophisticate. Isola tapped on the wooden doorframe as Erastes roared with laughter and slapped the bottom of a passing serving girl. The smile he sent her way did not extend to his eyes, and Isola leant against the wall, arms folded. Slowly, the conversation died down until silence roared in the stuffy, stinking room.  
'I want my money,' Isola murmured, her voice low and calm. Erastes shifted, sneaking a glance at his guests, who now seemed uncomfortable. Isola ignored them; if Erastes hired mercenaries to commit murder, that was his problem. He had to be prepared to deal with the fall off from that. Erastes stood, face darkening. 'How _dare_ you?' he snarled. One of the businessmen- a baker called Acerbo who Isola had seen in the forum- shifted uncomfortably and stood. 'Erastes, I think I'd best be getting back,' he whimpered. If Erastes had been polite before, any semblance of geniality was destroyed; 'Oh, had you? Fuck off- _all _of you!' The businessmen and whores filed out, all of them avoiding Erastes' glare, which hadn't moved from Isola's own dead eyed gaze. 'I want my money,' Isola repeated, once the door had shut behind the guests. Erastes purpled with rage, his jowls quivering. 'You _dare_ to come here- in front of my guests- and ask me to pay you? You should be grateful that I hired you! You, a mere woman with a blade!' His eyes raked over her, malice and disbelief written all over his face. 'I'm surprised that you've got the strength to kill a man.'  
Isola raised an eyebrow, running the tips of her fingers over the sharp blade. Her silence seemed to unnerve the fat Roman; he reached into a wall space and pulled out a bag of coins. Isola motioned to the table with her blade. 'Count it.'  
Erastes opened his mouth, caught Isola's glare, and closed it again. Tipping the bag of coins on the table, he began to count them out loud and piled them into small towers.

A short while later, Isola knocked on a thick wooden door, her hood pulled up to disguise her face, the bag of coins gripped tightly in her hands. Nervousness began to gnaw at her; if she couldn't get the fix she needed… 'If you call at this hour, you'd best be armed with good coin,' bellowed a voice from inside, the sound of a drag and thump, drag and thump coming closer to the door. Relief clear in her eyes, Isola looked up and waited patiently as the door opened a short way, revealing the grizzled, grumpy features of an old man. His piercing, sightless blue eyes and white blonde hair practically shone in the meagre torchlight behind him. Taking a breath of the night air, he paused. 'Isola?' He muttered, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening as he reached out of the gap with one hand.

'Aye, it's me, Claudius,' she replied quietly, reaching out and taking his wrinkled hand. Placing his fingers on her forehead, she let him feel the contours of her face. His fingers slid over her smooth, bronzed skin, dipping into the hollows of her cheeks and gliding over the small, straight bridge of her nose. He frowned. The door opened fully as Claudius shouldered it out of the way, reaching up with his other hand to cup her face.

Using both hands, he felt the high ridges of her cheekbones and the defined, stubborn tilt to her jaw. Sliding his hands down her shoulders to her wrists, he enclosed his hands around her wrists, his fingers overlapping on the other side. Isola remained still, knowing that he wasn't assessing her identity any more than she was a pious, delicate woman. Quite suddenly, quicker than most would have believed possible from a man Claudius' age, he delivered a short, hard smack to the side of Isola's head. 'You've not been eating,' he snapped turning his back on her and shuffling back inside, beckoning with one hand. Rubbing her ear, Isola followed Claudius into his home, shutting the door behind herself. 'You've got to eat,' Claudius grumbled, limping over to his workbench, leaning heavily on his stick. 'I know you've got your man to look after, but you can't go on skipping meals.'

Isola sat down on the stool by the fire and didn't reply, knowing the short tirade like the back of her hand. Dropping her head into her hands, she massaged her temples, feeling a headache coming on. Her man- Crito- couldn't live; not with the injuries he'd suffered. But she continued to come to Claudius, desperate for a cure to the damage, searching for the possibility that there was hope in the dark, merciless life that she led. Just this morning, Crito had been unable to rise from his pallet, a moan of pain escaping his chapped, blistered lips as Isola pulled him up, taking as much of his weight as possible. She'd left him leaning against the wall in his bed, breathing shallow and laboured. Crito saved her from slavery; to let him die was a betrayal of trust; she'd told him he'd be better by the end of Kalends, and she would do anything to make it so.

Claudius grabbed little bags of powder and herbs, mixing and grinding different measurements using a mortar and pestle, continuing to berate her; 'He isn't going to survive, Isola. You and I both know that. If the herbs haven't worked by now, they never will. I'm an expensive doctor to hire…I don't know why you don't go elsewhere.'

Isola lifted her head. 'Because any other doctor would have turned me away by now.' Claudius was the best; he came from Gaul, and had been a slave to a Roman noble for years as a physician before he was made a freedman. Despite his expensive prices, he was compassionate, and Isola knew that much of the money went towards new herbs that would cause the healing process to speed up. Claudius turned back towards her, those sightless eyes glaring at her directly; 'Maybe I should send you somewhere else. Make you see sense.'

Isola stood, crossing the room in three strides. Lifting his hands again, she placed them around her neck, letting him feel the thick, ridged scar that encircled the slender expanse of skin. 'He's all I have, Claudius. He is my world- my everything. He saved me.'

'You can't save him,' Claudius said softly, pulling his hands away gently. 'That fire destroyed his body; you're only prolonging his pain.'

'He doesn't want to die,' Isola said stubbornly, her tone sounding more confident than she felt.

With a shrug, Claudius turned back to his work. 'Mark my words, lass. He won't last much longer.'

Isola returned to the stool and pulled out her knife, running her fingers over and over the smooth, sharp iron. Claudius shuffled over, holding out a pouch. Taking it in one hand, Isola fished twenty denari from her bag of coins, letting Claudius feel each one to make sure that he wasn't being cheated. He patted her shoulder, shaking his head. 'Soon, you won't have a reason to stay in Rome,' he said softly. 'Where will you go?'

Isola paused at the door, the herb pouch clenched tightly in her hands. 'Home?' Claudius pressed, spreading his hands in a questioning shrug. 'Maybe you will go east?' he called as Isola left, closing the door quietly. She stood in the doorway for a long moment, hearing Claudius call through the door, 'Make your plans, girl. It will soon be time.'

Heading out into the dark street, Isola kept the bag of herbs tightly clutched in her hands. She'd made a promise, and she was damned if she was going to break it.

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The dawn came grey and cold, the mist that rolled over the hills towards the fort bringing the promise of a damp, miserable day. Tristan leant against the doorframe to the barracks, watching the damp fog making its way across the land. 'Lookin' at it won' make it go away,' Bors yawned from behind him. 'Nothin'll make that stuff go away,' he growled, scrunching his nose up as the cold air hit him. Tristan folded his arms across his chest and let out a short sigh. 'You should be in the infirmary,' he murmured, half turning to face Bors. The thickset knight shrugged guiltily, the bandages that swathed his chest rising and falling as he gave a loud, melodramatic sigh. 'I'll run mad if I stay in there,' he groused, flicking two fingers back over his shoulder towards the hated sickrooms. The surgeon there, Brutus, was as bad as his name suggested. Most of the knights preferred to get their brothers in arms to stitch them up than endure the prodding and fumbling of the snappish Roman. Tristan snorted, pushing back his hair with a long fingered hand. The braids were falling apart; two weeks had passed since his last excursion to the bathhouse, and he wasn't keen to repeat the experience. Bors looked at the younger man thoughtfully; 'Get it cut off.'

Tristan looked at him pointedly. Bors scrubbed a hand over the short stubble that was growing back fairly quickly; his head had been shorn as a punishment by the Legionnaire Arthur was being examined by. A wry smile twisted Bors' face. 'Per'aps not,' he muttered, 'Still, easier to cope with than that mess.'

'Talking about hairstyles? I'm sure Vanora would love to hear about that, Bors.' A voice drawled from up the corridor. Turning, Tristan and Bors scowled at Lancelot, who leant around his doorframe, bare chested, hair wild with sleep and a sheet clutched dangerously low around his hips. A decidedly feminine voice called him back to bed. 'Bedding women, Lancelot?' Tristan called. 'Makes a change.' Bors roared with laughter and clapped a broad hand on Tristan's shoulder, almost knocking him flat to the floor. Lancelot swore at him and ducked back into his room- presumably to show his guest that bedding women was his speciality. Tristan gave Bors a careful push back down the hallway; 'You'd best be getting to the surgeon- they need changed,' he grunted, nodding to the small red stain on Bors' chest. The large knight grinned ruefully, looking down at the stain. 'Couldn't you do it?' he asked hopefully. Tristan shook his head; 'Training.'

'At this time?' Bors griped. 'Well if you will go waking every bugger up wi' that belly laugh o' yourn,' Kay bellowed down the corridor, 'Trainin' is to be 'spected!' The tall, redheaded knight strode down the corridor, broadsword in one hand and a smaller, curved blade in the other. He looked at his younger brother's bandages, the tiny red stain having grown bigger. 'Infirmary- go on,' he snapped, blue eyes flashing as Bors opened his mouth to protest. 'That bastard does anythin' out o' line, you tell me.' Bors closed his mouth and trudged back up the corridor, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'Mother Hen.' Kay snorted and turned back to Tristan, who held out his hand for his sword. The curved blade shone in the darkness, polished to a sheen by the assiduous knight. 'Trainin'?' Kay asked. Tristan nodded.

Sweat dripped into Tristan's eyes, and he shook his head to clear the droplets before twisting away from Kay's broadsword, which cut through the air towards him. Thrumming past at lightening speed, Tristan's own blade clashed noisily with the rounded shield Kay brought up to defend against the blow. The dance continued with a series of parries and thrusts, the heavy shield that Kay bore swinging dangerously close to Tristan's face on more than one occasion and Tristan's sword skimming past Kay's frame closer than Arthur ever allowed when he was present.

This was their kind of training; the one where politics and safety were left behind and the rage of battle descended. The cold of the morning was chased away by the heaving, tensed muscles that moved underneath the heavy cloth jerkins worn by almost all of the Sarmatian knights. Step, step parry and Kay's shield clattered to the floor under a rare, heavy blow from Tristan's sword. Step, step, swing and Tristan leapt back to avoid being cleaved in half. As he recovered, feet stirring up hay on the floor, a voice rang out over the training yard; 'Kay! Tristan! Arthur calls for us at the table!' Panting heavily, Kay turned to Gawain who stood watching the sparring partners. The blonde man grinned at the pair and turned on his heel, heading out into the mist outside the training courts.

Kay looked at Tristan with one eyebrow raised. Tristan shrugged, sheathed his sword and jogged over to the water barrel, dunking his head into the freezing liquid. Yanking it out with a curse on his lips, he shook his head vigorously, soaking Kay. The cold slap of the water had reddened his cheeks and made his hair slide into rat tails around his face. Glaring at him, droplets of water sprayed over his chest and face, Kay grabbed his sheath and kicked the door open with one foot. Following him, Tristan wrung out his long, bedraggled hair with slender fingers, sword tapping his hip as it hung on the loose belt. It wasn't the first time that they'd had an early morning table gathering. Usually, it meant that Woads had tried to cross the border and taken a few hostages to try and barter terms.

The Round Table Hall was warm; the torches that provided the only light in the room were blazing brightly, the flames flickering against the wall in bright reds and golds. Taking his seat next to Bors, Tristan leant over to mutter, 'Woads?'

Bors shrugged. 'Somethin' from Rome, so I heard. Probably some Christian berk wanting protection.' Tristan leant back, fingers idly tapping the armrest of the chair. His hair still dripped onto his jerkin, creating small damp patches.

Taking the end of one braid between his thumb and forefinger, Tristan squeezed, watching with honey coloured eyes as the liquid beaded up and slid down his thumb, vanishing under the tribal leather cuff he wore around his wrist. If it _was_ Woads, it was more than likely he'd have a good hunt on his hands. Taking life wasn't hard; it was finding those that you had to kill that was difficult, truly, it was the fight that made killing so much more satisfactory; knowing you were a better swordsman than your adversary. A deep sigh worked its way out of his chest. He enjoyed hunting. His eyes slid to Galahad, who was bouncing his knees nervously, watching the door for Arthur's arrival.

Tristan tilted his head, watching the younger knight. He knew Galahad didn't understand his killing gift. He didn't understand the adrenaline that flowed when blood-lust yanked the red mist down; didn't understand the pull and flow of muscles that worked to sweep a blade up and around. To Galahad, killing was something that he was forced to do, and anything the young knight was forced to do, he didn't like. At all.

The side door thumped open. Arthur strode into the room, upon which a sudden hush had fallen. Tristan dropped the end of his braid, watching curiously. Arthur seemed tense, his shoulders up around his ears as he hurried to his seat, lips drawn into a thin line and his green eyes narrowed. Tristan leant back, making himself comfortable. Maybe this would be more interesting than Woads.

Arthur sat, then cleared his throat. His eyes scanned the table, making sure his knights were all present. 'Knights,' he began, authoritarian voice ringing out, 'There has been a murder in Rome. A Senator.' Silence. Tristan almost smiled. It was nothing to do with them; hunting seemed back on the agenda. 'I must send three of you down to Londinium, escorting Crassus Valerius. From there, he will travel with his own men to the ports and to Rome. He wishes to…oversee things.' Beside Tristan, Bors sighed to the ceiling. 'If he's got 'is own men, why does he need us?' He asked loudly, leaning forward to rest one arm on the table. 'Because he doesn't have enough men to safely travel the distance from here to Londinium. He has more men in the city,' Arthur replied, spreading his hands in a placatory gesture.

Bors grunted, clearly irritated. Everyone knew Crassus Valerius. He was a local Roman noble, whose loud, holier-than-thou attitude had tested Arthur's seemingly limitless patience to great lengths. By the way the commander had phrased the last part of the explanation, it was clear to all why Valerius wanted to go to Rome; he was curious about the death; it had nothing to do with the politics of the matter or the murder itself; it was simply to satisfy his own morbid curiosity. 'Who will you send, Arthur?' Bedivere asked quietly.

Tristan's fingers resumed their tapping. Arthur hesitated. 'Tristan,' he said quietly, 'Gawain and…Galahad.' Tristan sat up. He was sending the chit? Galahad too seemed shocked. 'Me?' Tristan frowned. The boy had only started to get used to his sword; although his eighteen years gave him speed and stamina, he wasn't a completely confident fighter. And on the south road, there would certainly be fighting. Gawain leant forward in his seat, fingers splayed on the table before him. 'Arthur,' he said hesitantly, 'while I'm sure Galahad is a capable fighter, would it not be…safer to take Kay? Or Dagonet? Both are older and more experienced.' Galahad looked irritated, opening his mouth to protest. 'You've never travelled with a caravan, Galahad,' Gawain said, cutting the younger man off, though his words were softened and his eyes kind. 'I'm just thinking of safety. You're very youn-'

'Only five years under service and already they question you, Artorius. How sad.' The knights with their back to the main doors turned to look at the newcomer while the others simply glared. A fat, sweating man stood in the doorway, robes draped around him ceremoniously. Tristan curled his lip. Valerius. The Roman swaggered in, breathing heavily under his own weight as his jowls quivered. 'I think that boy will do fine,' he crowed, smiling with yellowed teeth at Galahad, who didn't reply. Tristan noted the tight set of Arthur's jaw as his eyes followed Crassus Valerius around the room. Waddling as fast as his legs would take him, Valerius made his way to Lamorak's seat, which had stood empty for almost a year. Tristan's eyes lingered on the small seat before looking back to the Roman.

Valerius too seemed to think twice about the wooded frame of the seat, and stood behind it, his podgy hands gripping the backrest. 'We were discussing safety, my Lord,' Arthur murmured, nodding his head respectfully, although he did not rise. Gawain cleared his throat, blue eyes taking in Valerius' expansive frame. 'Speaking of safety…will you be on horseback, or in a carriage?' Bors made a strange sound that seemed suspiciously like a suppressed snort, although it wasn't noticeable to anyone seated more than a place away. Tristan dropped his head forward, wet hair falling forward to cover his half as Valerius replied that he would be travelling in a carriage.

Arthur stood suddenly. 'Tristan, Gawain, Galahad? You will be leaving tomorrow. You have the rest of today to gather your belongings, sort your equipment. Dismissed.' The scraping of chairs filled the room as the knights filed out. Tristan was halfway out of the door when Gawain's voice sounded at his ear; 'If he wasn't in a carriage, he'd have to walk. No horse'd carry him.' Tristan grunted in agreement. He was looking forward to the journey; a good long trip with the promise of battle. It seemed perfect. 'Tristan!' Half turning, the lithe scout saw Galahad jogging toward him. 'D'you think I'm old enough? Do you think I'm ready to fight?' the younger man demanded, hazel eyes half uncertain, half infuriated; Tristan gave a wry smile. Being the underdog was hard; the youngest of three brothers himself, Tristan was aware of the struggle for acceptance. For acknowledgement. When those same two brothers died in raids, he railed against the same responsibility he had fought so hard to win. 'Do you think you are old enough?' he replied after a moment. Galahad lifted his chin, eyes blazing. 'Yes.'

Tristan shrugged. 'Then you are ready.' Galahad nodded, face serious. Tristan watched him walk away. He made a note to keep an eye on him during the trip.

The next morning came dark and misty; the twin of its predecessor. Tristan carefully saddled his horse; a mighty Andalusian, whose massive hooves kept dancing nervously. Patting the strong, muscular neck, Tristan leant around the expansive chest to watch Crassus Valerius through the stable doors; the fat Roman clambered into a sturdy carriage, which was connected to two strong geldings. The scout shook his head. Rome. It seemed a hellish place, though Arthur could never admit it to be so. Leading his horse out onto the cobbled street, Tristan swung up into the saddle, seeing Gawain and Galahad leading their own horses out into the grey dawn. Lifting his face to the sky, Tristan closed his eyes and revelled in the cold air. Rome. Better Valerius than him.

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Please review. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Title;** Forsaken  
**Summary;** Rage and mercy seldom go hand in hand.  
**Author's Notes;** Well, here we are. Chapter Two. Thank you to all the lovely people who reviewed the first chapter. You made me a very happy girl!

Isola shows a different side in this chapter; hope she's not coming across as too this/that way.

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**Rome**

The darkened alleyways provided ample shelter for Isola as she wound her way towards the rooms she shared with Crito. Herb pouch now safely tucked into the inside pocket of her jerkin, Isola's left hand concealed a small blade, the point of which was extremely sharp and slightly serrated. The back alleys were her favourite route; quick, easy and safe. Well- safe for her. Isola paused to look around a corner. It wasn't safe for the people that had-in the past, tried to take her money.

Nearing the rooms, Isola felt her feet slowing. What kind of state would Crito be in? Would he be able to speak? Or would he be in agony? Claudius' words rang in a haunting, damning chant through her mind. She was keeping him alive in agony. Prolonging his pain. But Crito didn't want to die.

Stepping through the arch that led to the stairs which ascended to the rooms, Isola stopped, sandaled feet a scant inch from the bottom step. She'd worked almost every night for five months, working to get the money needed to support the rent and pay for Crito's herbs. He hadn't improved, there were some wounds too deep to ever heal. Taking a steadying breath, Isola jogged up the stairs, trying not to think about the next job- another assassination; this time a businessman who'd gotten strange ideas about how much power he had in the Aventine. Tossing the thoughts from her mind, Isola set her mouth in a grim line. Now wasn't the time to be thinking of death.

Pushing the door to the rooms open, Isola tried to breathe through her mouth. The smell of infection pervaded the small place, the darkness absolute. Guilt gnawed at her. Coming back after dark meant that Crito only got light when she did; he was too weak to move. 'I'm back,' she said softly to the darkness, padding over the fireplace. Untying her cloak, Isola placed it on a hook and called again. Nothing. Slender fingers tightening around the stub of a candle, Isola hunted for flint. Crito slept a lot of the time. With the dim light from the candle wavering, Isola shielded the flame from the air as she lit the lamps, bathing the room in a golden glow.

It was a clean place, ordered and sparse. A table and two chairs took up the window space at the other end of the room, near the preparation bench. Those three bits of furniture and the fireplace were all that adorned the room, which was bare of any wall paintings.

Isola looked at the half-open door that led to Crito's room. Apprehension waded into her stomach, forcibly displacing the almost perpetual calm Isola tried to keep a hold on.

'Crito?' Isola whispered as she bent around the door. The smell of infection was worse here. If he was asleep she couldn't-or wouldn't, wake him. The candlelight fell on a lump of bedcovers; Crito had slid down the wall from that morning; the angry red blood marks that were smeared down the grey plaster were evidence enough. The lump shifted, and a burnt, bandaged hand fell over the top of the covers limply, a deep, agonised groan filling the air. Isola pushed the door open fully, light from the other room spilling over the scrubbed floorboards. She lit the lamps before kneeling beside the pallet, pulling the covers back. Crito moaned as the weeping sores on his back were pulled from the linen, which had stained yellow in places. Isola clamped her jaws together to keep her chin from wobbling, the burning sensation at the back of her eyes forcibly blinked away. Calming herself, she placed the sheet aside and murmured a gentle apology. Rising, she padded through into the other room, grabbing a bowl from the preparation table. Claudius' words rang in her mind again, and her fingers tightened around the edge of the chipped bowl. Striding out of the rooms, Isola headed back down the stairs to the shared pump in the courtyard. Whilst the bowl filled steadily, she tilted her head back, looking up at the stars. She'd once counted those stars with her father, losing count after forty because at six years old, she couldn't get any further. Only two years later she was crawling into the hypocaust system of a noble house, trying to clean it out, the slave collar heavy around her small neck.

Water sloshed over her fingers, and Isola realised that she'd overfilled the bowl. Picking it up, she trudged back up the stairs. Placing the bowl on the side, Isola grabbed a cup, dipping it into the water, filling it to the brim. The herb packet opened easily under her fingers and the contents dropped into the clear liquid. Stirring it and adding a few drops of lemon, Isola watched the swirling contents and wondered whether it could be made to taste any better. A voice nagged at her, though it wasn't Claudius'; '_Play with what I've given you and you'll make it less potent!'_ The first healer she'd tried; Gaia. A kindly old Egyptian, Gaia was rumoured to be over one hundred years old. However, she also had warts and a leer, so she was also rumoured to be a witch. Underneath the prickly exterior was a woman who wanted to help people, though it had taken coin to find that person.

Isola carried the mixture through to Crito, who was lying in the same position that she'd left him in. 'I've got the herbs,' Isola said, trying to inject some cheer into her voice. Crito grunted.

Placing it on the floor, Isola carefully placed her hands on the scarred skin of his arms and tugged. With a childlike wail of pain wrenched from his damaged throat, the man rolled onto his back, and Isola grabbed the other arm, pulling him off the sore skin and onto his reasonably healed other. He faced her now, his half scarred face giving only part of his story; the story of a handsome young man whose life was ruined by a house fire. Isola stroked his unburnt cheek gently, jaw tight again. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered fiercely, fighting back tears. 'Sorry, Crito.' His brown eyes were clouded with pain, but he leant into her hand, lashes fluttering closed as he struggled to breathe normally.

He was in agony, day in, day out. Isola bit her lip. What if Claudius was right?

She leant down over her lover, brushing her lips gently over his good eye. 'Crito?'

He opened his eyes blearily, the right one drooping under scarred skin.

'What do I do?' she asked softly. 'What do you want me to do?' Crito's mouth moved, but no sound came out. His one good eye dropped to her belt, then flickered up to her face. Isola looked down. Her knife hung from her belt.

'No,' she whispered. 'You don't want to die.' Isola knew she was convincing herself, and only herself. Crito groaned, the long, low sound a sharp contrast to the scream of pain only moments ago. Picking up the mixture, she brought the cup to his lips. Crito stared at her for a long moment, then drank greedily, knowing oblivion was only minutes away. The herbs acted as some kind of pain relief, though it was somewhat addictive. Isola had heard stories of nobles using the mixture as a form of entertainment, drinking a cupful then watching as dancers became demons before their eyes, their bodies numb and unresponsive. Shaking her head, she stroked Crito's high cheekbone as he drifted into sleep. He needed the drug; it was keeping him alive.

Standing, Isola left the room, blowing out the lamps and shutting the door behind herself quietly.

* * *

The taste of the wine burned down her throat. Letting her head drop onto her pillow, Isola closed her eyes, mind fighting itself with different thoughts. The now empty bottle clattered to the floor, rolling from her fingers.

She'd only served two years as a servant before running away, becoming part of the orphan gangs on the streets of Rome. As she'd grown older, she'd moved into work as an assassin. Her first job was an old merchant who had attacked another merchant at a meeting; shamed, the wronged man had ordered the older man dead. Isola blinked at the ceiling, trying to remember how old she had been. Ten? Eleven? She was almost sure it was eleven. Now, twelve years later, she was still working; one of the best in the business. Rolling onto her side, Isola tucked one hand under her pillow, feeling the knife still in its sheath sheltered there. Safety first.

She hadn't always had that attitude; after meeting Crito almost two years ago, safety had been the last thing on her mind. They had quickly become lovers. Isola turned her face into the pillow, taking a deep breath. Those first few weeks had been wonderful. They'd spent most of it entwined, skin sliding over skin and mouths greedily clashing as they laughed and smiled and made love. They'd paid for these rooms together out of savings from their jobs; Crito had worked as a butcher; he didn't like Isola's 'profession', but didn't question it. Then, six months ago, Isola had done the unthinkable to an assassin; she had killed the wrong man.

It didn't sit on her conscience; that was a part of her so deeply buried that it was rare anything reached down far enough to prick it. It did however, almost kill her; the man she had been sent to kill had placed a decoy in his bed; the man she killed. Guards had sprung up from behind the door and on the balcony, tackling her to the ground and beating her senseless.

Her arm twinged, and Isola moved it from underneath the pillow; it had been broken by the man as he questioned her. For a month she had been beaten, tortured and left unfed with a jug of stale water in a tiny cell.

Isola rolled onto her back, spreading her arms and legs out to try and encourage a wisp of air to cool her hot skin. The scar around her neck, caused by the thick metal chain placed there by the murderous Roman itched, and long fingers tore at the skin impatiently.

Crito had saved her; gone mad with worry, he had found the villa and torched it, running into the burning building to find her as the noble and his servants ran out. Isola swallowed as she remembered the smell of smoke and the heat of the flame. Crito had fallen under a beam that crashed to the ground.

Her heart began to pound, memories flashing behind her eyes; the sight of him unconscious and burning, dragging him to the healer, kneeling over him as the fever took hold.

Not working hadn't been an option.

Isola's eyes began to close, the deep grey vanishing and reappearing as she blinked. Rolling onto her front, Isola shut her eyes, pressing her face into the pillow. Crito wouldn't survive. She knew that. Sleep came slowly, haunted by the sight of Crito's body trapped forever under the beam.

* * *

''Sola! '_Sola_!'

Sitting bolt upright, blade out, Isola pressed the blade to soft flesh, eyes still hazy with the weight of sleep. When her vision cleared, she lowered the knife. The little boy kneeling by her pallet was wide eyed and breathing heavily, unperturbed by his close experience with death. 'What is it, Marcus?' Isola asked quietly, leaning back on one elbow and rubbing her eyes tiredly. Her head pounded; a result of the wine the night before. 'Soldiers! They're coming for you!' Isola glanced to the door and jumped up. 'Why?' she asked, pulling a jerkin over her simple vest and grabbing a pair of breeches. ''Cos you done bad,' the little boy cried, tears shining in his big brown eyes. 'They sayed they was going to kill you for being bad.'

'Think, child. Did they say anything in particular?' Dashing to Crito's room, Isola flung open the door. ''Cos you killed a 'portant man last night. His son is mighty angry. 'Astes told'em you were here. '

'_Fuck_,' Isola snarled, 'that bastard.'

'You gotta leave, 'Sola.' The little boy pleaded. 'They's already hurt mama. She 'tol me to come tell you to run.' Isola stopped in her tracks. She couldn't leave. Not without Crito. The soldiers would torture him. Half in the doorway to his room, she looked at him. Crito was breathing hard, looking at her. He looked at her knife, then looked at her. 'No,' Isola whispered. A crash sounded outside, accompanied by a scream. The sound of hobnails on cobbled stone echoed like thunder. 'Pleese, 'Sola! Go!' Marcus shoved her into the room, pulling the door shut. Isola ran to the shutters, ignoring Crito's fist thumping on he floor. Yanking the shutters open, Isola looked out. She'd have to carry him. Turning back, she dashed to Crito, sliding her hands under his arms; violently, and with more strength than he'd ever shown, Crito threw himself back against the mat. He croaked, trying to make himself heard above the sound of smashing crockery, and it took Isola a moment to realise he was speaking. 'Go.' The footsteps were clattering up the stairs, and she heard Marcus wail. '_Go_,' Crito choked, looking at her knife. Isola felt tears on her cheeks and stood, drawing the knife. Crito's one good eye stared up at her, filled with emotion. He nodded feebly, still watching her. The front door to the rooms slammed open and Marcus screamed again. Isola's hands shook, feet frozen to the floor, her eyes locked with Crito's. Footsteps thundered towards the closed door.

'Go.'

* * *

**Britain**

Blood sprayed as Tristan slit the soft throat of a kneeling bandit, the hot liquid coating his face in a feral war paint. Gawain roared beside him, bodily lifting another of the would-be attackers and dropping him onto the ground, neatly decapitating him with a downswing with his axe. Galahad blocked an attack with his shield, slipping clumsily in the mud then driving his sword through his opponent's neck. The carnage was absolute. Two of Valerius' men had died, their bodies lying abandoned in the mud, eyes opened to the grey heavens, wide and unseeing.

The last two bandits were shot as they fled, the bowman hired by Valerius finally managing to put arrow to string. Tristan glared at the young man. 'A little late, isn't he?' Gawain groused, wiping his axe on the sack cloth cloak of a body. Tristan grunted and flicked his eyes over Galahad, who was leaning heavily on a tree. 'You alright, pup?' he asked, seeing Galahad's fingers tremble.

'Fine,' he replied shortly. Tristan shrugged and pulled a soft leather cloth from his jerkin, wiping it over his stained sabre. The curtain on the wagon, which was sprayed with blood twitched back. 'Are they all…deceased?' Valerius called, his voiced booming from the darkened gap.

'Yes, M'lord,' one of his men, Publius, replied, already saddling back up. 'You three,' he barked at the knights. 'Mount up.'

'What about them?' Galahad asked, motioning to the dead Romans. Publius shrugged.

'They're mercenaries, nothing to do with us.' Outrage flashed over Galahad's face, but Gawain rested a hand on his shoulder, murmuring, 'Don't, just do as he says.'

'How many survivors?' Valerius boomed as the caravan began to move again. Publius scanned the group. Tristan conducted his own quick count; other than the two dead in the mud, there were no injured, which numbered the caravan at a solid six guards including the knights and Valerius and his servant. 'All but the mercenaries,' Publius reported. Galahad looked over his shoulder as the bodies began to fade into the misty drizzle.

Tristan hunched his shoulders, trying to glean some extra warmth from his cloak; Londinium was close, and the lure of hot food and a warm bed made the cold all the more unbearable.

Rome crept unbidden into his mind; it was a strange image. The way Arthur described it, there was a gleaming, airy forum with the Senate building, olive trees grew in the courtyards of houses and the streets were awash with the sounds of the market and taverns, languages from every corner of the world blaring out at each other in a huge, peaceful melee of different cultures living together in one place; a place where the Bible was practically law and goodness lived. Tristan shook a drop of rain from the tip of his nose. The soldiers travelling with Valerius alongside the knights had seen Rome, too; the scout turned his head and looked at the largest one. He had an ear missing, and didn't seem overly pleased at the thought of returning to his home city. As they had left the fort, Gawain had asked the solider what Rome was like. His reply was short and snapped; 'Rome? If you go there, don't trust anyone.' Gawain had looked at Tristan and raised his eyebrows.

Shifting in his saddle, Tristan glanced at the sky. Clouds boiled over the expanse, a wind that was not to be felt on the skin shoved the dark masses violently, making them race, fighting in a battle that caused no deaths and no pain.

'We're here,' Gawain murmured, standing in his stirrups to get a better view of the buildings cresting over the hill. 'Londinium.'

* * *

The tavern was loud, busy and full of drunk soldiers. Tristan leant against a supporting post, tankard in hand. His golden eyes were narrowed, examining the clientele. Gawain and Galahad were laughing and yelling and throwing knives, egged on by two whores that smiled and shyly flickered their eyelashes. Tristan drained the rest of his tankard, feeling the weak ale burn down his throat. The arrival at Londinium had not been without difficulty; Valerius insisted that the knights stay at the barracks while he dined at a friends' villa. Arthur had told the knights that they were there as protection, and that Valerius should not be left alone. Tristan scowled as he recalled the nasty expression on Valerius' face as he'd spat 'I'm not taking a group of bedraggled…_louts_ to a dinner party!' As far as Tristan was concerned, the fool could do what he liked, so long as he wasn't a part of it. Placing the tankard on a nearby table, Tristan wove his way through the crowd to his brothers in arms.

He tapped Galahad on the shoulder, motioning that he was leaving. The younger man nodded, a frown of concern flashing over his face. 'Going back to the barracks?'

Tristan nodded, turning to leave. A pair of ice blue eyes bored into his, and he took a step back, irritated. The woman looked around eighteen or nineteen, though it was likely the bruise under her eye made her look older. 'Lookin' for some comp'ny?' She asked resignedly. Tristan shook his head and moved to step past her. As he did, a soldier grabbed the girl and hauled her onto his knee, planting a smack on her arse as he did. 'I'll have ye, beautiful,' he leered, grabbing obscenely at her breasts. Tristan's mouth thinned as he noted the sick and defeated expression on the whore's face, her head drooping forward to shield her face with her hair. Reaching out, he grasped the girl's hand and pulled her up, pushing her one handed behind him. 'Changed my mind,' he muttered, gripping her arm just below the elbow and dragging her out before the drunk man could figure out what had happened.

The street air was filled with the smell of liquor, vomit and shit; not unlike the latrines after a particularly heavy night of drinking, Tristan mused. He released the woman and handed her a small amount of coin.

She looked at him, tilting her head onto one side. 'What'd you have me do?' she half whispered, looking back over her shoulder into the busy tavern. Tristan shrugged. 'Go home, have a bath, get some sleep. I don't need you.'

Confusion made her wrinkle her small nose up, and she took a step away from him. 'I'm unattractive to you?' she asked, hurt now clouding her eyes. Tristan tilted his head and looked at her. She was slim and had dark, silken hair. Her blue eyes named her as a Briton, though her olive skin suggested that Roman parentage wasn't out of the question. Full, moist lips and a stubborn chin gave her a comely look that was becoming. She placed her hands on her hips and jutted out her chin, narrowing her eyes. 'You're pretty enough,' he said finally. She raised an eyebrow. 'Thank'ee, Sir,' she said sarcastically. Tristan frowned. Fair enough.

Turning away, he made to walk down the street. A small hand gripped his wrist, and he struggled not to fling it off. He settled for a barely perceptible growl that rumbled through his chest. 'Sorry,' she said quickly, letting him go. She stood in front of him, brazenly meeting his eyes. 'Look, if'n I try'n walk, I'll get hounded by men too drunk to give a shit,' she said evenly, eyes belying the confidence in her tone. Tristan said nothing, looking down at her. 'You don't have to pay me,' she said, stepping closer to make herself heard, her voice having dropped to a low murmur, 'I just don'-' she jumped as a beaker thrown from an upstairs window shattered on the cobbles behind them, 'Don' want to be pitied. Though I 'preciate you helpin' me,' she added, twitching her nose.

Tristan looked away, eyes clouded in thought. She was offering to stay the night; he wanted company that wasn't inebriated. He nodded, letting her fall into step beside him. He may as well have company if it was being thrown at him.

'Woss your name?' she asked suddenly.

'Tristan.'

She murmured his name to herself, rolling it on her tongue. He nudged her elbow as they came to a corner and she turned obligingly. Tristan looked down at her as she picked her way through the lane, avoiding stagnant puddles of various liquids. Unlike the whores at the fort, she didn't try and introduce herself or tell him about her life. He supposed she was used to people not caring. He wasn't going to be the one who made her think otherwise.

She seemed to be a strange mix; a woman trying to be tough and a girl still trying to block emotional outbursts that came from not being in the business for long. He motioned her on when she turned to look at him, a half smile turning the corners of her mouth.

The bruise on her face looked old- perhaps three or four days. The barracks where the knights had been billeted appeared around the corner and the whore stopped. 'You're a knight?' she breathed, facing him with wide eyes. Tristan nodded, motioning for her to walk on. She took a few hesitant steps and paused again, looking at the armed guards with trepidation. With a huff of annoyance, Tristan grabbed her arm and guided her toward the gate as her small legs struggled to keep up with his longer ones. Once past the guards she seemed to relax, her tense muscles loosening in his grip. Tristan led her to his room and closed the door, sliding a simple bolt across.

She turned and grinned at him, hands sliding over the tabletop as her eyes alighted on the armour stacked in one corner. Tristan kicked his boots off and couldn't help a small smile in return.

Her eyes grew serious. She padded across the stone floor until she stood scant inches from him, her face turned up to his.

'Thank'ee,' she murmured. 'I haven't been doin' this for long, an'-' Tristan touched a finger to her lips, the rough pad of his index finger lightly pressing against the petal soft skin. 'I'm paying you,' he said quietly, moving away to pour a drink. She chuckled, walking backwards back to lean against the wall, the moonlight pouring in onto her skin, eyes sinfully dark in the half light. Tristan shook his head, turning his back on her as he picked up the jug of water.

He heard a soft gasp, then a gentle thump and turned to see that the girl had slumped down at the base of the wall, her eyes unfocussed. He frowned, looking at her with his head tilted. She didn't move, her eyes fixed on the floor.

It was then that he saw the dart protruding from her neck. Tristan threw himself flat to the floor and looked at his open shutters. Someone had been watching; while the thought stung him, it was for the wrong reasons. His privacy invaded, Tristan felt his blood boiling. He cast a glance at the dead girl and tried to judge where the dart had come from before he leapt up, making an ungainly crouched dash for the door as another dart shot through the open shutters and embedded itself in the table. Tristan slammed the bolt back and slid out, closing the door with a thump behind him.

The moron trying to kill him wasn't doing a very good job. More fool him. 'Tristan!' The two forms moving up the corridor towards him passed through torchlight. Gawain and Galahad looked harassed and decidedly sober. 'Are you alright?' Galahad asked as they drew closer. Tristan nodded; 'Someone shot a whore in my room. Dart.' Galahad looked shocked and turned to Gawain. 'I _told_ you he was trying to kill us!'

'Who?' Tristan snapped, patience wearing thin. Gawain explained, face deadly serious.

'There was a man following us as we walked back here,' he said in a low voice. 'He was carrying a blade and went for Galahad.' Tristan's eyes flickered back to the younger man and saw a red line disappearing from the back of his hand up his sleeve. 'You alright?' he asked gruffly. Galahad nodded, motioning back to Gawain.

'That's not all,' the blonde knight said. 'Valerius is dead.'

* * *

Please review! I'm flying in eight hours, so this is the last, last post I'm making for two weeks. Hope you enjoyed. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Title;** Forsaken  
**Summary;** Rage and mercy seldom go hand in hand.  
**Author's Notes;** Sorry it's taken so long. Not going to go into it in depth, but I'm going through a rough patch. I know you all deserve a little more explanation than that. Sorry. Updates will continue to be slow. It's not because I've lost interest in 'Forsaken', it's just a bit difficult at the moment.

**Rome**

The blood pooled out over the floor, a small lake of red that surrounded Erastes' corpse. Isola sat with her back against the wall, her legs stretched out before her, heels stained in the blood that coated the flagstones. A long, serrated knife lay in one open hand, blemished with splashes of the viscous scarlet liquid.

Erastes hadn't died quickly. His arms and legs were covered in cuts, some deep, some shallow. The olive skin of his face was a mass of blood; the features indistinguishable; obliterated. It meant that she wouldn't have to drag him to the Tiber and get rid of him that way; she didn't have time- nor did she have the strength.

More blood dripped down the stairs behind her; a hired guard- not the usual Tullius- who had tried to stop her. There was no guilt at his death. He had raised a hand to her when she'd tried to pass. So he died. Cause and effect, though the effect was usually the same in Isola's line of business.

Looking down at her clothes, Isola squinted at the new, bright blood and the older, dried blood, closing her eyes to slits until the colours merged and blended. Crito's blood. Erastes' blood. It was all the same in the end. She'd never met a man whose blood looked any different, despite the talk of foreigners being inauspicious and dangerous. She idly twisted the knife between her stained fingers. Nah. All the same.

Crito had died quickly; the blood that sprayed from his neck like spring water soaking Isola as she turned to flee. Her chest was fairly covered with the dark red splashes. Her eyes flickered back to Erastes' body. An eye for an eye.

She snorted. Erastes had meant nothing to her; another payment, and that was it. There was no friendly banter that was often heard amongst other hired hands and their employers; there was only the money and the death. No. Not an eye for an eye. What had taken place was not enough to fill the hole that yawned in her chest, a void of emptiness that seemed bottomless.

Crito had meant everything. Crito was dead. Tilting her head, Isola spun the knife until it pressed into the cloth covering her heart, nicking the skin below. Everything that she had was gone; she couldn't return to the rooms- the nobleman's son, Vulcan, had torched the place. Nothing was left. Another wry smirk twisted her mouth. Vulcan.

What kind of vain nobleman names his son after an old Roman God? Isola sighed. A dead one.

Pulling herself up using the wall as a support behind her, Isola limped towards the door; Erastes had attempted to defend himself with a small knife, only landing a long, shallow blow on her thigh before being kicked to the floor and his Achilles tendons cut.

Pausing by the door, Isola looked down at the pile of coins on the stand. Erastes had used them to pay his mercenaries. If she was going to leave, she'd need money. Looking down at her thigh, she wrinkled her nose. A visit to Claudius would be in order. Grabbing two bags of coins from the heap, Isola staggered up the stairs and stepped over the body of the day guard, whose neck lay opened and jagged in the dawn light.

The streets were still mostly deserted; a drunken soldier lay in the dirt and detritus of the gutter, red cloak dirty and dulled. Looking down at herself, Isola paused. If she was seen covered in blood, questions would be asked. Reaching down, she cut cloak at the neck, pulling it off the solider and wrapping it around herself.

It would have to do. Continuing in a shuffling gait, Isola limped towards the side street where Claudius lived. Numbness seemed to sink into her bones. There was little feeling left in her gut other than to do something. Anything. The world had changed, and there was no place in it for Isola.

**Britain**

The port was busy, people pushing and shoving to get on and off the gangplanks, sailors calling to each other, hoists lifting stock on and off the different ships and, over all of it, the screaming of seagulls. Isola leant on the rail, watching the hustle and bustle. Her leg throbbed, still bandaged. It took a week to sail from Italy to Britain; a week of storms, seasickness and foul thin broth that came up faster than it went down.

Claudius' advice had not gone unheeded; his hands feeling their way around the wound in her thigh as he stitched it up, blind eyes turned to hers, the milk white orbs somehow conveying urgency in the pale depths. Vulcan had torched part of the Aventine looking for his father's murderer; the reports were that the Senate were up in arms about the issue; one of their own had been murdered, but the Aventine was an influential area; the plebs would not take kindly to their homes being engulfed with flames, and if the Senate did not appear to do something about it, their power would be threatened.

Isola had boarded the first ship fit for sailing; a merchant trader who'd allowed her passage for twenty denari; a vast amount, but getting out of Rome was essential- according to Claudius. Isola didn't feel anything either way.

'_I don't see the point,' Isola murmured, ignoring the sting of the alcohol as it cleaned the bloodied slice in her leg. 'I may as well go to him and tell him it was me.' Claudius slapped her calf, almost upsetting the carefully balanced herbs on Isola's leg. _

'_Don't be foolish, child. You have your life- don't throw it away.' _

'_Why not?' Isola asked quietly. 'I have nothing left to live for.' _

_Claudius snorted. 'Stop moping. Crito was going to die; he's gone now, you have to move on. The gods don't wait for those stuck in the past. Are you going to get off?'_

Isola frowned at the last words, then started as a hand clapped down on her shoulder. 'Are you getting off?' the sailor repeated, nodding his head towards the dock. Isola nodded, leaning down to pick up the small bag at her feet.

The gangplank shuddered under her feet as she descended to the dock, wooden boards trembling with age and fragility. As her feet touched worn stone, a dog padded over to her. It was large, mangy and had one ear missing. The other ear flopped half over a bright blue eye. It looked up at her with an expression of bemused good humour and wagged it's scraggly tail. Isola looked around for an owner, though she already knew that this dog was a stray. No one would keep such a scabby dog.

Isola reached inside her bag and pulled out a small strip of dried beef, tossing it to the dog, who snatched it out of the air and swallowed it in one gulp. Suppressing a smile, Isola headed past the gangplank and set off into the depths of the port streets. As she walked, she was aware of the dog at her side. It trotted along, tail wagging, seemingly unaware of her company, as though she was merely taking the same path as itself. Isola turned away down an alleyway; the dog turned the corner just behind her, this time keeping half a pace behind her and to the left, as though it were a guard dog.

Isola stopped, turning to face the dog. The bright blue eyes stared beseechingly up at her, mangy tail whipping from side to side. 'I don' have any food,' Isola told it, holding her hands palm up and facing down to prove it. 'S'all gone.'

This was a slight lie, but the dog wouldn't leave if it thought that there was still food to be gleaned. The dog sat down and whined, mouth falling open to allow a long pink tongue to loll over the canines. 'Fine,' Isola muttered starting to walk again. The click of nails on the cobbles beside her indicated that the dog wasn't going to leave her alone. Fair enough. It would leave when it found out that there wasn't going to be any more food coming from her.

The city smells were almost identical to the ones in Rome; the unpleasant smells of sweat, shit and sex permeated the lower district. Picking her way through the streets, Isola stared at the amount of slaves- the streets were filled with them, dirty faced Britons and Caledonians with faded blue skin and tribal designs etched on their arms and expressions of defeat and sadness. 'Rebel scum,' groused a croaky voice from her elbow. Glancing at the owner- a leathery faced old woman in rags, Isola raised her eyebrows.

'Are you a Roman?' she asked. The woman shook her head vehemently. 'I'm Briton through and through. They-' she pointed at the slaves with a gnarled finger-'take all the jobs.' Isola turned away and slid through the crowd, dog at her heels. It was a classic problem with the Roman system; the more slaves that were taken, the less work there was for the people; situations usually ended in revolution or bloodshed- more often in the annuals, both. It wasn't unusual for people of the same ilk to turn on one another, driven by hunger and poverty to form tribes once occupation had ended, both weakening the country as a whole, and preventing the land from becoming united and forming an empire.

Stopping at a crossroads, Isola stood to one side and leant against a street corner, debating which way to go. She hadn't noticed the solid weight on her right leg until her hand, seemingly of it's own accord, began to scratch the dog behind it's ears. 'Still with me, eh?' she murmured, a wry smile twisting her lips as the dog stretched and let out a soft whine.

A clatter of hooves on cobbles made her look up. Two geldings and a stallion made their way down the left hand street. Isola let her eyes run appreciatively over the stallion; the long, muscular legs moved with sturdy grace and the black coat gleamed in the shards of sunlight that pierced the grey clouds. It was only as the horse passed that she looked at the rider; his dark hair hung around his face in braids, while golden eyes appraised her from above tattooed cheeks. Knights. Mouth twisted in a wry smile, the dark man nodded to her, those strange eyes looking her up and down with bemusement. Something like indignation flashed behind Isola's eyes before she realised that the dark man's eyes had changed to a grudging respect. It probably had something to do with the array of knives on her belt. His blonde companion leant over and muttered something unintelligible.

Isola held her breath until the trio passed; it wasn't often someone unsettled her. One of the knight's companions- curly haired and grey eyed, turned back and grinned at her. Isola tilted her head in a polite nod and slid away from the wall, heading in the direction that the knights had come from, golden eyes imprinted on her mind's eye.

'If I was looking for mercenary work, where would I go?' she asked, sliding a coin into the middle of the table, picking up the tumbler and rattling the dice around in it. The grubby man sat opposite her leered, shrugging his shoulders. Isola slid another coin into the middle, the dice beating a tattoo around the wooden inside of the tumbler. 'North,' he grunted, 'Near the Wall if'n you're looking for long term payment.'

'Why would that be?' She was good at this; information gathering. It took the right amount of leverage and indirect implication. The knife she spun idly between two fingers was almost certainly indirect implication to anyone in the tavern that attempting to jump the stranger would result in a very painful death.

The dice thudded under the tumbler. 'Higher than five,' Isola said, leaning back in her chair. The man chuckled. 'There's only one dice.'

'I'm aware of that,' Isola grinned. 'I'm a generous person.' He leered again, eyes dropping to her chest. 'Lower,' he purred suggestively. Isola lifted the tumbler. Six dots decorated the top of the dice. The gambler's face dropped. Sweeping up the not inconsiderable pile of coins from the middle of the table, Isola dropped them into her leather purse and stood. 'Better luck next time,' she murmured, 'Now- a good horse dealer?'

'Do you think Arthur will be angry? And how do we explain what happened?' Galahad asked worriedly, his horse dancing to the side skittishly as his fingers tightened around the reins. Gawain shook his head as Tristan motioned for the gatekeeper to let them pass. 'He told us to leave him,' Gawain said as the gates to Londinium closed behind them, 'We were dismissed. Off duty.'

'It doesn't explain why we were attacked,' Galahad persisted, waving his bandaged arm pointedly.

'Getting rid of the evidence,' Tristan murmured, casting a glance at a trio of Roman soldiers as they walked by. 'If we return straight away, we can tell Arthur what happened- if we were dead, it wouldn't be so.'

'Someone is making time for something?' Gawain asked, brow furrowed. Tristan shrugged. 'Maybe.'

The clouds overhead boiled into a dark maelstrom, while thunder rolled over the plains. Galahad looked over his shoulder nervously as the low rumbles echoed around the ravine they were travelling through. Gawain noticed his discomfort and reached over to lay a hand on the younger man's shoulder. 'It's nothing- just the thunder.'

Tristan looked over his shoulder at the pair and grimaced; they would need to break camp soon; the weather would not allow for sleeping out under the clouds. The ravine edged out into a wider channel through the rock; the face of which was littered with dark entrances to caves.

It would have to do. Turning in his saddle, Tristan motioned to the valley sides. 'We're better off making camp now,' he said quietly, 'Horses in one cave, us in another.' A loud bang of thunder rang out, sending the horses skittering from side to side, whickering in alarm. Gripping the reins to his stallion, Tristan rode out the panic as heavy, cold raindrops began to fall. Dismounting, the knights struggled through the worsening mud to a cave that sloped upwards to a flat part, the relatively small mouth belying the wide inner.

'We wouldn't have anything to eat, would we?' Gawain asked hopefully, wringing out his hair onto the floor, leaving a small puddle on the dirt.

'I'm hungry,' Galahad seconded, grinning as he turned to Tristan. The older knight looked at the pair. 'I can't magically produce food,' Tristan said with a barely audible chuckle. Galahad's face fell. 'So,' he said after a moment, 'no food?'

'No food,' Tristan affirmed. Gawain sighed, then looked out into the rain. 'You could always go and find something?' he suggested. Galahad grimaced, casting a disdainful look out at the deluge.

Tristan shrugged. 'Then you don't eat until tomorrow morning.' Settling down beside the small brushfire he'd managed to light, the scout unsheathed his sword and a cloth. Swiping it over the blade, his mind turned to the grey- eyed woman in Londinium. She unsettled him- a rare occurrence.

Gawain and Galahad settled down, voices low and echoing around the cave. The cloth moved over the blade, making soft swishing sounds that soothed him as the dark clouds that he'd seen before mixing with the cold grey of the woman's gaze swirled around his mind's eye. She'd seemed haunted. Lost. That cold steel that shone out from her posture and gaze belied a vulnerability that clashed too strongly with the steel to be mistaken.

A soft clack caught his attention. Gawain and Galahad continued to talk, seemingly oblivious to the noise. Tristan continued to swipe his cloth over his blade, ears tuned for another noise. A moment later, another clack, this time accompanied by a soft curse. Tristan stopped cleaning and looked directly at Gawain, who'd also heard the noise.

Their horses whickered in the adjacent cave, then all hell broke loose.

Three men charged into the cave, all wielding axes. Bringing his sword round in a low half crescent, Tristan sliced through the handle of the axe that came flying towards his chest, jumping back as the head dropped towards his thigh. Gawain roared as his own axe was torn from his hands, his hands flying up to grab the wrist of his attacker, tipping the stranger onto his back and winding him. The youngest of the group fared the best; his attacker lay dead on the floor, blood pooling out from his neck, which had been cleanly sliced by Galahad's clean blade. Tristan parried a blow from a knife, leaning into the swipe to push his attacker back. The man fled.

Racing to the edge of the cave, snatching his bow and arrows as he passed, Tristan took aim at the fleeing attacker; only to see him cut down by a knife that seemed to fly from above the mouth of the cave.

Leaning out and looking over his shoulder, Tristan saw a lithe, dark figure walk from the edge of the cave roof and reappear on the edge of the ravine path, followed by a mangy looking dog. He saw then that it was a woman, dressed in dark clothing. She approached the dead man, reaching down to yank the knife out of his back, wiping it on the steadily dampening cloth of his jerkin before tucking it away inside her tunic. Pausing, she reached back down and snapped a purse from his belt, hefting it in one hand before attaching it to her own belt. Tristan didn't need to see her eyes to know who she was. The cold detachment with which she cleaned her blade off on the dead man's clothing was clear enough. The dog woofed softly and wagged it's tail at her, nudging her hand with it's nose. She laughed and scratched the dog behind the ears, looking up at the sky with a small smile at the rain before turning and walking back towards the cave. Her face was bruised on one side, lip split. Clearly, she'd been in a fight.

Her eyes met his, and she stopped. The dog growled, lips slipping back over the teeth. Tristan raised the bow, aim steady. 'Who are you?'

Please review.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title;** Forsaken  
**Summary;** Rage and mercy seldom go hand in hand.  
**Author's Notes;** I'm really sorry its been so long. Things are still a bit rough, so again, updates may be patchy.

'Isola,' she murmured, keeping one hand on the collar of rope around the dog's neck. The growl that rumbled through the animal was echoed by the thunder as it rolled around the ravine.

Tristan kept the bow levelled at her, hearing the sound of the last man being overcome in the cave behind him. Galahad appeared at his shoulder, eyes wide as they examined the woman. 'Who..?' his voice trailed off as Tristan shook his head. 'Tristan, she's hurt,' Gawain murmured from his other side. Tristan didn't lower the bow.

'Why were you following us?' Galahad called, unaware that she had killed the other mercenary.

'I wasn't,' she replied, tugging the dog back as it began to snarl. 'I was following them.'

Tristan motioned for her to move into the cave, leaving the shelter of the overhang to shift around her left, pointing the arrow at her back as she dragged the dog forward. It snapped at Galahad's knees as she yanked it past.

Gawain motioned to the dead man in the rain with a questioning look. Tristan lowered the bow, then pointed back at the dead man, miming stabbing. Gawain's eyebrows rose.

Following Galahad and Isola into the cave, Tristan and Gawain took up positions on either side of the cave mouth, while Galahad, who had rediscovered his sword and now had it in the ready position.

Isola leant against the back wall, still griping the rope collar with one hand as the dog growled. The younger knight's eyes were firmly fixed to the animal, wariness written all over his rain-soaked face. Isola's face was bruised, lip split: despite this, her expression was one of absolute neutrality: there was no indication of any pain, fear or even anger. There was simply calm nothingness.

Tristan shoved more brushwood on the fire, sending the flames higher and a glow across the whole cave. Galahad moved toward the fire, and fractionally toward Isola. Almost instantly, the dog lunged forward, snarling. It's teeth snapped scant millimetres away from the sword tip as Galahad stumbled backward, eyes wild with panic. Isola grabbed at the rope with her other hand, heels digging into the floor as her fingers strained around the rope in an effort to keep the animal back from Galahad, who had retreated as far back as the wall allowed. Tristan noted that her face went grey, lips tightening into a thin line. _'Dog,_' she snarled, _'pack it in.'_

The animal subsided, and she released the collar, leaning back against the wall, folding her arms, though her face remained pale and her lips tight. The dog lay down at her feet, watching the three knights with disdain, a steady rumbling rolling through it's cavernous chest. Tristan picked up his bow. 'If it does that again, I'll shoot it,' he said quietly. She looked at him with a glare. 'He's protecting me,' she murmured simply, as though there was no other explanation needed.

'Why were you following them?' Gawain asked, sliding his axe back into his belt.

'They stole my coin and my horse,' she replied after a moment.

'You killed that man out there,' Gawain said slowly, 'Because they stole your horse and coin?'

Isola nodded.

Galahad paled, moving further away along the wall. Tristan set his bow back alongside the wall, motioning for Galahad to lower his sword. 'Where were you going?' Gawain asked, settling down on the other side of the fire.

'Hadrian's Wall,' she replied, remaining standing. Tristan narrowed his eyes, bringing out his rag to carry on cleaning his sabre. For a moment, he saw her eyes flicker to the blade, appreciation darting through the grey depths.

'What were you going to the Wall for?' Galahad asked. Isola met his eyes and remained silent. After a long pause, she slid into a cross-legged position. 'Mercenary work.'

The dog shuffled until it lay against the side of her leg. She idly began to scratch behind it's one ear. The growling stopped.

The rain outside pattered against the floor, and the steady _whump-whump_ of the dog's tail against the sandy floor of the cave. Tristan studied her from under his fringe, watching as she closed her eyes, continuing to scratch behind the dog's lone ear. She was tense. Despite the closed eyes, her limbs were taut, ready to fight.

Galahad's nervous voice asked the name of her dog.

'Dog,' she replied, opening one eye. Amusement softened the grey as the youngest knight snorted, 'A dog called Dog?'

'Aye,' she answered. 'What other name should he have?'

'Something other than Dog,' Gawain put in. 'My name is Gawain,' he said after a moment. He motioned to his brothers in arms. 'This is Galahad, and Tristan.'

'Isola,' she murmured with a nod. 'Where were you travelling to?'

'The Wall. We're stationed there,' Galahad said, leaning forward on his knees to pull his riding blanket from his saddlebags. Tristan made a noise in the back of his throat. This was too much. He smelled a rat, and if this rat was anything like the ones in Londinium, it was terrier sized, and ready to bite. If Londinium had revealed an attempt on the knights' lives, then this woman was a liability. She was going to the Wall, and she was a mercenary. It was quite possible that she had been the one in Londinium. Tristan tucked one of his legs underneath him, comteplating exactly how to relay this information to Gawain. No sense in telling Galahad; he would only panic.

Isola nodded, leaning her head back against the rock. 'I was told that the Wall is good for mercenary work,' she said after a moment. 'Is this true?' Tristan listened again, irritated that he had evidently missed a portion of conversation.

Gawain nodded, then realised that her eyes had remained closed. 'Er- yes,' he said. Tristan glowered at her. Isola's eyes remained closed, as though confident that the knights would not attempt to attack her. Tristan watched her long, slim fingers as they ruffled up the fur at the neck of the dog, which was glaring at him balefully.

Taking the opportunity of her momentary nap, Tristan motioned to Gawain and Galahad. If he couldn't speak, then Galahad would have to know. He gestured at her, and mouthed _Londinium? _Gawain shrugged, but rested his hand on his axe haft. Galahad's jaw tightened and he glared at the resting woman.

Quite suddenly, Isola opened her eyes. 'I'm not stupid,' she said quietly, 'and you don't trust me as I don't trust you. So why don't I go on my way?'

Struggling to her feet, Isola felt irritation boiling over in her blood. It wasn't as though she wanted to be here. If those idiotic thieves hadn't stolen her possessions, she would never have had to come into this cave. The knights stood simultaneously, weapons drawn.

'What were you doing in Londinium?' the youngest knight asked. Isola frowned.

'Londinium?' Suddenly, the memory of the amber-eyed knight flashed back, and her eyes fixed on Tristan. 'You were in Londinium on the day my ship made port,' she said, mulling it over in her mind. 'Leaving, by your saddlebags.'

'The day your ship made port?' Gawain asked, hefting his axe. Isola glared at him, nodding. 'I left Italy a week or so ago, to come here.' This seemed so pointless. Like they were purposely wasting her time. As if she had nothing better to do.

Keeping one hand on Dog's collar, Isola stood and drew a knife from her belt. The knights tensed. Pain and anger drove her eyes into a hazy reality that seemed tainted with red. 'Don't try and stop me. You will die,' she said slowly. 'You have no need of me. Either I am a whore to you, or a soldier. As I am a woman, I suspect I am the former, in your minds.' She released Dog's collar. 'However, I am neither whore nor soldier. I am a mercenary, and I will not hesitate to kill you all.'

Her hands seemed slick around the bone handle of her knife, which worried her. It belied the onset of fever from her wounds, though there was no cut from infection to stem from. In this new country, in the cold and the wet, there was much illness around, and the beating she had taken from the thieves had weakened her to the point of exhaustion. Tiredness shook her knees, and with a half groan, she sank back against the wall, one hand supporting her while the other held the knife out before her in self defence. Her hands trembled, knife quivering. Only her eyes burned brightly, rage simmering as the blood lust rose. If one of the knights had attempted to attack her, there was no way she could have defended herself, though her expression said that there would be a good chance that she would try her damnedest to take one of them with her. Gawain took a step forward, his unarmed hand raised toward her. Isola frowned as the hand wavered in an out of focus before sliding down the wall and collapsing into a heap at the bottom, eyes closed and her face pale.

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	5. Chapter 5

Title; Forsaken

**Title;** Forsaken  
**Summary;** Rage and mercy seldom go hand in hand.  
**Author's Notes;** Chapter Five. Things still slow, obviously. 'pologies. xx

* * *

There was an animal moving underneath her. Everything hurt, from her toes to the crown of her head. She was also bound to the leather that she straddled. Isola raised her head slightly, eyes narrowing into slits against the morning light and the raging headache in her skull. Dog padded alongside the horse, tongue lolling from between his fearsome teeth, tail wagging back and forth. The horse she was riding was her own, the strong, powerful muscles that coiled and shifted below her had a familiar feel, although she had known the beast for less than a day.

The sound of armour clinking and hoofbeats around her alerted her to the fact that the knights were still present. Dog woofed at her when he realised that she was awake. Isola tried to smile at him, succeeding only in splitting her dry lips. Blood welled up, sliding down her chin as she attempted to sit up. To her irritation, her hands were bound to the pommel of the saddle, preventing her from sitting back. Her head screamed for darkness, and Isola shut her eyes with a wince as the sun shone out from behind the grey clouds that covered the sky. Glancing to her left, Isola met Tristan's eyes.

His horse was tethered to hers, the rope that bridged the gap thick and strong. There was no chance that her horse, powerful gelding though he was, could possibly break free of Tristan's stallion. He smiled grimly, as though he could hear her thoughts. Isola inclined her head at him, eyes cold.

'Did you try and kill us?' Galahad called from behind her. Isola twisted awkwardly, trying not to turn on her ribs and only succeeding in shuffling halfway around the saddle. She realised that her ribs had been bound in bandages. 'I had not met you until yesterday, though I saw you in Londinium,' she answered with a small shrug.

'Where?' Tristan asked, eyes on the road ahead. Isola looked at him again, though he did not return her glance. 'At a crossroads. You were riding for the north road,' she replied after a moment. Suddenly the horse skittered under her, halting. Isola jerked, closing her eyes against the shock of pain that skittered and lodged behind her eyes. Clamping her legs more tightly around the girth, Isola struggled to stay balanced as the gelding began to shift from side to side, dancing and snorting. Her hands scrabbled uselessly, wrists tied too tightly to the pommel to allow her a decent grip. Tristan's horse whickered, pulling forward with a snort, attempting to shift the gelding. Then, just as suddenly, the stallion halted, nostrils flaring and gaping against the air.

Dog, who had been quite happily sniffing around, began a low, rumbling growl, ears flat against his head. The horses began to dance back down the path, away from the gaping maw the trees made in the morning light. Gawain, who had been covering any tracks at the rear, rode up as Galahad's horse also began to spook. Patting his horse's neck nervously, Gawain sent Tristan a questioning look.

Isola grunted in irritation as she began to slide sideways, struggling to stay on the horse without any stirrups. Tristan grabbed the rope that joined the two horses and pulled, bringing Isola's gelding in close. He grabbed her shoulder, righting her in the saddle. Isola shrugged away from him, eyes fixed on the treeline. 'Wolves,' she said softly.

Dark shapes had begun to creep from the trees, slinking low to the ground. There was at least seven shapes. 'In the middle of the day?' Galahad yelped, fingers steady on his bow despite the quake in his voice.

'It's been a hard winter,' Tristan muttered, glancing at Isola as he drew an arrow back, using his knees to guide his stallion and Isola's gelding back along the road. 'They will have gone hungry.' One of the shapes howled, spooking the horses even further. 'We couldn't just ride at them?' Gawain wondered aloud. 'They'd lunge,' Galahad whispered, watching the wolves slinking along the ground.

Isola realised with a sinking feeling that she would be tethered to Tristan's horse whatever happened. 'Untie me,' she said softly, eyes still glued to the wolves. There hadn't been anything like this in Rome- certainly there were worse things to worry about than wolves, but the size of the beasts and the strange, glowing eyes that shone even in the winter sun were somehow more unnerving than a drunken Roman thug with a machete. She had only ever seen a wolf once: caged and in the slave market. It had slunk back and forth in the cramped cage, eyes fixed on the tradesmen, eyes filled with rage. Once had been enough for Isola- wolves were born killers. Death was not something Isola feared, but dying fighting, not tied to a horse, was her departure of choice. And certainly not death by wolf.

Tristan looked at her for a long moment, 'No.'

Isola gave him a long, level look. 'I can use a bow, I can help.'

'And in return you want us to let you escape?' Galahad snapped, struggling to control his horse as it skittered back. Isola ignored him, still looking at Tristan. Their horses were inches apart, and she was almost a head and a half shorter than he, despite their horses being roughly the same size.

Letting the arrow in the bow twist until he held it in one hand, Tristan reached over and grabbed her wrist, tugging the horse in until they were calf to calf. His hand wrapped completely around her arm, his palm warm against her skin. 'Try to escape, and I will shoot you,' he warned, tucking the bow and arrow into a side quiver, pulling a knife out of his boot a moment later. Isola nodded curtly, looking back at the wolves that were slinking closer by the moment. The knife swung down and severed the ropes, easing the pressure on her hands. 'My bow?' she said quickly, hand outstretched. His hand slid from her wrist, and he looked over his shoulder at Galahad. The young knight handed over the bow and quiver with a scowl. Isola pulled back, grabbing the reins in one hand, before growling in irritation. Her horse was still tethered to Tristan's. Before she could call to him, an unearthly howl went up, and the wolves started to run at the group, pack instinct taking over. Isola picked a target and shot, sending her arrow into a wolf's foreleg. It tumbled down to the ground with a howl. From behind them, Gawain's voice rang out: 'Retreat,' he snapped fiercely, wheeling his horse around. 'Now!'

The horses wheeled, Tristan's stallion turning in the opposite direction to Isola's gelding: the rope snapped tight, making both horses stagger backward. Isola cursed and slid sideways in the saddle, still tethered by her feet, bow hampering her hands. A wolf lunged, mouth opened in a terrifying maw, eyes red. Panicking, Isola curled upwards, clamping her jaw tightly against the yelp that threatened to break out of her mouth as her ribs pulled. Flailing wildly, she pointed her bow outward in an attempt to shunt the animal away.

There was no impact.

A howl filled the air, and Isola opened one eye to see a brawling mass of fur, flying around in a blur, tangled up with a mangy pelt. Isola stared for a long moment before realising that the mangled bundle was Dog. The horse shifted under her, sending her sliding sideways again. Tristan grabbed at her, gripping her tunic and pulling her upright, his knife flashing through the air to slice the rope that tethered the horses together. 'Dog,' Isola bellowed, gripping the reins, ramming her bow into the side compartment of the saddle. _'Dog!_'

Dog flopped suddenly out of the mess, taking off in a streak of brown fur up the road. Isola swore, kicking the horse into action, she followed Tristan's retreating form, blood pounding in her ears. As the horse fled up the road, the red, crazed eyes of the wolf burned themselves into her mind.

* * *

Isola watched impassively as Galahad cut the ropes from her feet, brow furrowed in thought. Dismounting, she scratched Dog behind his lone ear, checking the animal over for injuries. Lowering to one knee, she gripped the scruffy muzzle in one hand, bending the animal's head gently until two bright blue eyes stared into hers. 'Don't do that again,' she murmured. 'Y'mad mutt.' Roughing Dog on the top of his head, she stood. The knights stood with their horses, watching her. 'You were in Londinium,' Gawain said thoughtfully, 'You're a fair shot with a bow… but not excellent. Your aim was slightly off.' Isola nodded, folding her arms over her chest. Rome wasn't exactly ideal for shooting. Too many corners and narrow alleys. Dog leant heavily against her leg, tongue lolling. Tristan tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowed. 'You any good with a dart?' Isola raised an eyebrow with a shrug. ''m more of a knife woman, myself,' she murmured. Tristan pulled the dart from his pocket, handing it to her.

Isola ran her fingers over the dart: it was fine craftsmanship, a thin stick with a sharp point at one end; unfeathered, it wouldn't have travelled very far, but the assassin that would have made such a slim, ingenious weapon would have been able to get fairly close to the target in the first place. One end was stained black. Raising it to her nose, Isola sniffed delicately. 'Poison from pufferfish,' she murmured. Pufferfish poison was rare in Rome. She handed it back reluctantly. She'd only used a dart one, but after finding her aim poor and the poison not strong enough, her usual method of knifework had been employed.

'Pufferfish?' Galahad repeated. Isola nodded. 'Rare poison,' she added, watching Tristan tuck the dart carefully away into his tunic. 'But rendered safe with thistle and bark.'

'You seem to know a lot about it,' Gawain said, eyes narrowed in accusation. Isola shrugged again. 'Knew an apothecary in Rome.'

'You're from Rome?' Galahad asked, surprised. Isola shook her head, turning back to her horse and gripping the pommel, taking a deep breath before hoisting herself into the saddle, air whooshing out of her lungs as her ribs protested.

Galahad opened his mouth to ask another question, before Tristan cut over him with a suggestion that they make for the west road and take the long way around to the Wall. Isola ignored Galahad's curious glance and pulled her horse around to follow Tristan's stallion.

Gawain, however, was not as easily dissuaded. 'You're not from Rome, you're not a Briton… where _are_ you from?' Isola shot him a glare, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. The blonde haired knight spurred his horse until they were level. 'Do you even have a home?'

'Do you?' Isola snapped back.

Gawain's eyebrows shot up in surprise. 'I am from Sarmatia,' he said after a moment. 'As are Galahad and Tristan.'

Isola said nothing. Since she had seen the men in Londinium, she had known they were knights. She had not known they were Sarmatians. The name was the subject of derision and respect in Rome: the street plays were filled with stories of their great deeds while the upper classes saw them as little more than slaves.

Isola herself could not truly remember where she was from. There was no real memory of her people or her home: all she knew was that she has been born in the east. Her parent's faces were blurry shapes: nothing more than wisps of memory as hard to hold on to as smoke in the palm.

Gawain watched her as she shifted in the saddle again, wincing as her side pulled. Isola huffed, pushing her hair out of her face. 'What?' she snapped.

Gawain said nothing, giving a one-shouldered shrug as he spurred his horse onward to level with Tristan.

The dark-haired knight had been listening to every word. 'Do you think she's telling the truth?' Gawain asked in a low voice. Tristan shrugged. 'Truth about what? We don't know anything about her other than she knows poison, is looking for mercenary work and was in Rome recently. The only thing that points to is her being a travelling mercenary, which she's already told us.'

'She was in Londinium, too,' Gawain reminded him. Tristan was silent for a long moment. 'I don't think she was the one who tried to kill us.' Gawain shot him a look. 'You _don't_ think she was?'

Tristan shook his head. 'The dart,' he said after a moment. 'She knew what it was, but she said herself that she was more a knife woman, the only thing she seemed to really know about it was that it was a pufferfish poison.'

'You don't think that's enough?' Gawain replied incredulously. 'She could be lying.'

'Could be,' Tristan conceded. 'But there's only one of her and three of us.'

* * *

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	6. Chapter 6

**Title;** Forsaken  
**Summary;** Rage and mercy seldom go hand in hand.  
**Author's Notes;** Chapter Six. I'm sorry its so late- I would explain, but they're really just excuses for me being a prat. Anyway- enjoy. xx

* * *

Isola yawned, straightening up in her saddle and blinked against the evening light. The sun hung low, casting shards of light across the horizon. Reaching a hand back, Isola idly scratched Dog's flanks. The wounded animal lay slumped over the back end of the horse, occasionally giving a half-hearted woof as her fingers came dangerously close to his wolf-inflicted wounds.

Narrowing her eyes, Isola scanned the length of the Wall. It rose from the earth in a black swathe, the lights on the mile castles and fort entrance giving a feeble glow against the fire of the setting sun.

Galahad looked at her out of the corner of his eye. 'What do you think?' he asked after a moment.

Isola shrugged. 'Its a big wall,' she replied flatly. A low chuckle on her left made her glance over her shoulder. Gawain smiled wryly. 'A big wall?' he repeated. Isola shrugged again, giving him a hard look. 'It's a big wall, that stretches across the whole of the northern territory,' she murmured. 'An achievement, maybe. How many men died to build it?'

'You're a mercenary. How many people have you killed?' Galahad snapped.

'Many men,' Isola snapped back, 'But I didn't enslave a nation and build a big wall on it.'

'So why did you kill?' the youngest knight shot venomously. Isola cast him a withering glare and shook her head.

The sunset sank below the horizon steadily, sending the already lengthening shadow of the structure dashing across the grass towards them. Isola tugged the scrap of black material serving as a scarf higher up around her chin, narrowing her eyes as she observed the guards on the battlements leaning over the stonework to get a better look at the newcomer sandwiched neatly in between Gawain and Galahad's horses.

Between the vallum and the Wall, lay the houses- if the term could be fittingly applied. The huts, lean-tos and roughly constructed houses that spanned the outer walls showed haggard and slightly hostile faces peering from around doorways and from behind hanging cloths in windows.

Dirty children with threadbare clothes and huge, curious eyes ran alongside the horses, giggling and laughing as they wove in between the hooves. A bark from Dog sent the children scampering back to the roadside, shrieking with laughter. Isola wondered why the gates were shut, leaving the families outside. Gawain seemed to catch her expression as Tristan motioned up to the guard to let them in.

'The gates are open from sunrise to sunset. They are closed through the night,' he said quietly as he motioned for her to spur her horse into the fort. 'The families outside cannot afford rooms within the fort.'

Isola shrugged. 'Means naught to me,' she said with an indifferent tone. 'I can afford rooms.'

Galahad made a disgusted noise, while Gawain frowned. Isola met his gaze steadily, features emotionless.

As they passed under the stonework arch, Isola glanced away from the blonde knight to the inner sanctum of the fort. The streets were almost devoid of people, but the loud, raucous noise of revelry coming from an unseen tavern dispelled any notion of low population. Close by lay the stables and the guard house, which abutted onto the wall, providing stairs up onto the battlements. The unpaved road that cut through the centre of the fort led straight up to the praetorian's buildings and the barracks that nestled on either side. Torches lined the streets, set into brackets on the walls that flickered in the slight evening breeze. Isola halted her steed for a long moment, puzzling over the straight lines and right angles. It wasn't what she'd expected, coming from the chaos of architecture in Rome and Londinium. Tristan drew his horse in front of her, blocking off her view. 'Come,' he murmured, nodding towards the stables.

Isola followed them inside the warm building, sliding off her horse and reaching around to gently lift Dog down from the animal's flanks.

As she lowered the dog down to the hay strewn floor, she lifted her chin, feeling the push of a blade through the scarf around her neck. She closed her eyes and smiled. 'You still think I'm the one who attacked you?' she murmured. Tristan lifted his blade, forcing Isola to stand straight. Gawain and Galahad had passed over the reins of their horses to a stablehand and left the building. Dog limped upright and began to growl. 'You are a mercenary. You know about poisons and weaponry. You saw us in Londinium.'

'I did,' Isola replied with a very slight nod. 'But I did not try to kill you.'

'Did you kill another man?' Tristan queried. 'His name was Crassus Valerius.'

Isola shook her head. 'No, I did not.'

Voices echoed through the doorway from the street outside. Isola glanced at the doorway, where a group of men had gathered.

'Tristan,' said a curly haired man at the forefront of the group. 'Stand down.'

* * *

Arthur couldn't quite work out whether the woman who stared fearlessly at him was indeed without fear, or whether she was merely stupid, and did not understand what he was saying. Currently, she sat on the cold stone floor of the cells, hands tied together. 'Do you understand what I am implying?' he said slowly.

Isola raised a scathing eyebrow and replied equally slowly, 'Yes. And I am telling you that I did not kill anyone in Londinium.'

'It might have been a different assassin working from the same source,' Kay rumbled over Arthur's shoulder.

'No point,' Isola sighed from the floor. 'Less expense. Why spend more on two assassins with different rates?' At the blank looks, Isola shrugged. 'No assassin has the same rate.'

Arthur and Kay looked at one another. The Roman motioned for the larger man to follow him outside the room.

After the door had been closed securely behind them, Arthur ran a hand frustrated through his hair. 'She's an assassin,' he sighed. 'That much is evident- but Tristan said that she was a mercenary looking for work at the wall. She _told_ him she was a mercenary.'

'Doesn't mean that she isn't lying,' Kay replied thoughtfully. He leant his broad shoulders against the wall and tilted his head back, thinking.

'Maybe she isn't the assassin,' he ventured. 'Maybe she's just an innocent bystander?'

Arthur frowned. 'True, that could be the case,' he replied. 'But Gawain said that she knew about poison- and why would she know about the assassins … rates,' he murmured, voice disgusted.

'But not about the way the dart was made,' Kay pointed out. 'According to him, she admitted that she wasn't any good with a bow and arrow- or darts for that matter. And if she's a city woman, then she might well know about assassins.' After a moment, he added, 'Or she may be an assassin too. Just not the one who killed Valerius.'

Arthur scrunched his face up, frustrated. Placing a hand against the door, he paused. 'I'll go in alone.'

Kay frowned and started forward, but the smaller man held up a hand. 'No, I will go in alone.'

* * *

Kay paced back and forth in the corridor, eyes fixed to the door. Arthur had been in the cell for over an hour. Despite his best attempts, the large knight could discern no sound other than the soft murmur of the woman's voice as she spoke- no sound came from the Roman commander.

Lancelot padded down the corridor and gave the heavy oak door as dispassionate look. 'Still in there?' he sighed. 'We should just kill her- saves problems all around.'

Kay glared at the younger man. Lifting his hands in surrender, Lancelot smirked. 'At least come and get some food- she can't do anything to him in there.'

Giving the door a final glance, Kay followed his brother in arms with reluctance.

* * *

Lifting her chin, Isola fixed her eyes on Arthur's. Her face was pale, though resolute. Her eyes shone, though no tears fell. Silence filled the room, oppressive and heavy. The Roman was seated on the other side of the cell, back against the wall. Pity and confusion played an odd war across his features.

'So what do you make of me now, Arthur Castus?' she said quietly.

For a long moment, the two looked at one another.

'I believe you.'

* * *

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	7. Chapter 7

**Title;** Forsaken

**Summary;** Rage and mercy seldom go hand in hand.

**Author's Notes;** Please review.

* * *

Acerbo wrung his hands, back bent nervously. 'Will this be adequate?'

Isola looked out of the window, below, the tavern floor stood barren of life. The early morning sun began to burn the horizon over the rooftops of the fort as Isola cast her gaze over the rest of the view. Torchlight threw an orange glow over her features that sharpened her cheekbones and set a glint in her eyes. Casting a glance back to the nightgown-clad Roman, the assassin smiled. 'This will do.' The man was visibly relieved, and nodded vigorously. 'Right, well then… I-I'll have your things brought up.'

Isola looked at him, faint amusement tilting her lips up. 'I don't have any things. Just Dog.'

The man nodded anxiously, wringing his hands again. 'So… my Lord Arthur mentioned…?'

Isola had turned her back once more, concealing the amused smirk that stole over her face. 'You will be paid on the first day of each month- the arrangement is…?'

'Ten denari,' Acerbo said promptly. Turning her lip up, Isola cast her gaze over the room again. 'Eight will suffice,' she said after a moment. 'I won't pay ten for a bed, chest and fireplace.' Isola turned away from the deserted tavern floor and waved a hand at the Roman. 'I will pay you tomorrow.' For a long moment, Acerbo hovered in the doorway, before deciding against an argument. With a scowl and a mocking bow, he withdrew.

As the door closed behind him, Isola padded over to the cot in the corner. Dog looked up from the blankets and let out a pitiful whine, tail wagging half-heartedly. Isola pulled back the blankets at the top of the bed and slid inside, negotiating her legs around Dog's form. 'Go to sleep,' she murmured. 'We'll have a look around tomorrow.'

* * *

The morning dawned bright and cold, the frigid air forming clouds of condensation before Isola's lips as she walked down the aisle of stalls that were setting up for the day. Materials, food, weaponry, trinkets, leatherwork, animals, pottery… stall after stall lined the outer walls of the inner courtyard. It seemed almost indulgent to her, that this oasis of colour in the middle of the dank and isolated countryside should be selling so many trinkets and pleasantries, rather than focussing on the survival of the community that lay outside the gates. She paused alongside a canopied shop selling sturdy furniture and watched the urchins that had been prowling the roadside yesterday stalk among the stalls, hoping to grab money or goods- or, she noted as a curly haired boy dipped his hand into a coffer while picking up apples, both. She watched as he successfully slid the coins into his tunic, unaware that the stallholder had seen his other hand reaching for the apples.

Grabbing the boy by the collar, the stallholder wrenched him away and clouted him on the ear, shouting obscenities. The boy danced away, holding his hand up in a rude gesture that Isola had seen many a time in Rome- and had used more than once herself. He stood for a moment, scowling.

He couldn't have been older than seven or eight, but held himself confidently, with his golden blonde curls giving him a somewhat angelic predatory look on his face as he searched for some soft hearted patron to beg from disillusioned the picture somewhat. Concealing a grin, Isola made her way through the aisle of stalls. Seeing his eyes alight on her Isola kept her face uninterested and smooth. The predatory expression vanished, and the golden haired boy began to cry great, fat tears that washed away the dirt on his face, leaving tracks. Running up to her, he flung his arms around her legs. Isola stopped, holding a hand out to Dog, who had begun to growl threateningly. 'Please, sir,' he cried, pressing his face into her breeches. 'Please have you got any money spare? I'm so hungry. I've had naught to eat for three days.'

Reaching down, Isola tugged the child away from her legs, crouching down to be at his level.

'I think the money in your tunic should buy you a loaf of bread, at least,' she said in a low voice, keeping a firm grip on the boy's arm. His face instantly turned hard, and he tried to wrench himself away. Heaving him to one side, she kept a grip on his arm as he struggled, all traces of sweetness gone as the panic of being caught thieving took over. 'Listen to me, boy,' she commanded, tightening her hold. The boy spat at her, missing. Losing her patience, Isola shook him, hard. 'Boy, I'm not going to tell the apple seller, now be still before I deliver a clout that you won't forget in a hurry.'

The child stilled, looking up at her curiously. 'You's a woman?' he said after a moment. 'Like my Ma?'

Isola paused for a long moment, confused- and realised with a small jolt that the boy had assumed she was a man. Dressed as she was, bundled up against the cold in heavy black leather, hair hidden under a hood, she looked much like one of the pedlar men that hung around the front gate. 'Aye, I'm a woman,' she replied after a moment. The boy reached up, clearly wanting to see her face. Crouching to his level once more, Isola allowed him to push back the heavy hood, freeing her hair and throwing the grey light of day over her features. Shuffling his feet, the boy looked down at the muck, bright curls falling over his eyes. 'Sorry I spat at you's,' he muttered, 'I don't spit at girls.'

Stifling a laugh, Isola shrugged. 'Girls don't usually dress like men,' she conceded. 'Do you know where mercenaries find work here, boy?'

He looked up, face suddenly bright again. 'Aye- they gets their work from Lividus. I'll take y' there for a price?' He paused, giving her a suspicious look. 'Why are you's looking for work fightin'? You can't fight- you's a woman.'

'Where I come from, boy, anyone can fight. Anyone can and everyone does,' Isola replied with a sharp look. The boy glared back, the expression slightly comical on his baby-faced countenance. 'My name 'aint boy,' he said sulkily, seemingly at a loss to say in the face of Isola's reply.

With a sigh, Isola gave the boy an exasperated look. 'What is your name, then?'

The boy shrugged.

'You don't know your own name?' she asked incredulously. Looking more sulky by the moment, the boy shook his head.

Sensing that the moment was turning stale and that she might have to find this 'Lividus' on her own, Isola said gently. 'What about your Ma? Didn't she give you a name?'

The boy shook his head again, refusing to look at her. 'She's prob'ly dead anyway. Ran away, I did.' With every word, his voice quietened, until Isola had to lean forward to hear him- and grabbed his hand as it darted inside her cloak.

'Where do I find Lividus?'

This time, the boy didn't even fight. 'Comes with a price,' he said sulkily, pulling his hand back when Isola let go. 'S'a job. I want payin'.'

Isola tapped her chin thoughtfully. 'Alright,' she said after a moment. 'Fair's fair. I'm asking for a service, and you want payment.'

The boy grinned, the smile splitting his faced from ear to ear. Eagerly, he held out a hand, grubby fingers motioning for Isola to pay up. She reached out, grabbed his hand and pulled him toward her, turning him slightly so he could see the merchant who the boy had stolen from. 'See him?'

The boy nodded, twisting his hand in her iron grip.

Isola grinned. 'You take me to Lividus, and I don't tell _him_,' she motioned with her free hand, 'that you lifted from his cashbox- _and,_' she raised her voice slightly as the boy began to struggle; 'I'll give you a name.'

The boy froze. 'Lividus is in the tavern, usually,' he said in a quiet voice. 'I can show you what he looks like.' Isola released him, standing back up to her full height.

'Thank you.'

* * *

'No.'

Isola tilted her head, frowning. 'Because…?' she ventured, trying to keep her temper.

Lividus crossed his arms and leant back in his chair, one eyebrow raised as he scanned over her. 'Look, you're a pretty lass, and this in't the kind of work that a young'un like you should be after. Try the tavern. They're always lookin' for barmaids.'

Isola kept her face carefully blank, eyes hard. 'I can kill a man without leaving a mark,' she said quietly. 'I can come and go without being seen, without being heard. My skills would be useful to you- especially here, with your blue men. I have no intention of whoring myself out. You need all the help you can get judging from your mighty army.' A tinge of scorn lilted the last two words.

Lividus' gaze narrowed. 'The Woads are not to be trifled with. They are like phantoms of men- like demons.'

'Demons?' Isola repeated, a ghost of smile twisting her mouth. 'They are men. I met them on the way here. They bleed and die as you do.'

Lividus rose, shaking his head. 'I won't hire a woman.'

Isola stood, planting her fists on the table and glaring. 'Then you are losing a fine opportunity.'

'Listen,' Lividus growled, pointing a finger threateningly. 'The only work you'll get here is on your back or in the infirmary, and you'll do well to remember it.'

Isola turned and stalked out, fury bubbling in her chest.

She almost fell over the boy, who was waiting outside. His wide eyes betrayed his eavesdropping, and Isola grabbed him by the collar and dragged him along the corridor. 'Where else can I get a job?' she asked, inwardly fuming. If she couldn't get work, she wouldn't be able to afford the room. She'd have to move on within the month. The boy struggled, kicking his legs out. 'Get off! You promised me!'

Isola heard the tearful tone to the child's voice, and immediately released the boy. Cocking her head to one side, she watched as he sagged against the wall, scrubbing the back of his hand over his eyes.

'You promised me a name,' he whispered, looking up at her, lip quivering. 'I never 'ad a name afore.'

Isola crouched down, smoothing a hand over the boy's golden curls. 'I'm sorry,' she said quietly. 'I didn't mean to take it out on you.'

The boy attempted a watery scowl, which failed when Isola pulled a curl down and let it bounce back up with a grin. She poked him at the end of his dirty nose. 'I'll call you Tiberius.'

The tearful cheeks rounded in a beatific smile. 'Tiberius,' he repeated quietly, rolling the name around on his tongue.

'Well, if you like.'

'I like.'

* * *

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